


come fly with me

by iksnilits



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Airports, Blow Jobs, Crack, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iksnilits/pseuds/iksnilits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>zayn and harry are stranded in an airport and find a few ways to pass the time. porn with arguably zero plot</p>
            </blockquote>





	come fly with me

While he would be the last to admit it, Zayn Malik is bargaining. 

_I’ll give up smoking for a week if my plane comes now_ , he thinks. Cracking one eyelid from where he’s squeezed them shut with some kind of desperate hope, he checks the announcement board. And - still delayed. For the fifth time in a row. 

_‘Dear valued customers,’_ drips a woman’s voice, saccharine-sweet, out of the overhead speakers. _‘Flight 3879 to London has been delayed due to inclement weather conditions. Please stand by for further notice. We apologize once again for the inconvenience._ ’

Zayn glares daggers at the speakers, but the effect is diminished somewhat due to the giant bags under his eyes. It’s 11 PM, he’s been in this hellhole of an airport for over eight hours, and his ass has been asleep for so long he thinks that there may be permanent nerve damage. Fuck these plastic chairs. 

An hour later, he tries again. _I’ll give up smoking and wanking for a week if my plane comes now._ And yet another hour later - _I’ll give up smoking, wanking, and comics if my plane comes right fucking now._

Which, of course, it doesn’t. 

Isn’t that just his luck. 

“Ma’am, please, aren’t there any other flights out tonight? I’m begging,” he hears a man’s voice say near the check-in counter. Zayn flops his head up to observe. He’s one of about ten people still waiting at the gate - most of the other people called for a ride or took a cab somewhere for the night. However, Zayn is stubborn, and he’s been here long enough already that getting a hotel room would be admitting defeat. 

The guy leaning over the counter is tall and slender, and his jacket stretches tight over his shoulders. Zayn’s a little distracted by the way his leg muscles bunch and tighten as he shifts from foot to foot. 

“I’m sorry sir, but we can’t fly in this storm,” the desk attendant says, smiling up at the man and momentarily forgetting to look apologetic. 

He must have some smile, Zayn thinks, from the way she’s blushing and twisting the luggage tags in her hands. 

“Alright, it’s no problem, thanks,” the guy says, and turns to walk to the banks of seats. 

He collapses into an end seat, sprawling his legs in front of him and letting his eyes fall shut. Zayn watches with detached interest as his lips part, bright pink and plush, and the guy sighs heavily. For the next twenty or so minutes, Zayn observes him from behind his phone. He’s trying to read the latest Saga, but mobile comic reading is hard on the eyes, really, he needs a break now and then. So what if the guy is the only interesting thing in his field of vision.

The man keeps tucking his nose into the thick scarf wrapped around his neck - like a turtle, Zayn thinks fuzzily. Zayn looks down fast when the guy pokes his head out of where he’s been burrowed into his scarf, scowling at his phone while furiously texting. 

“Hey, man, would you have a phone charger I could use? Sorry to bug you,” he says after a moment, and Zayn starts, jolted out of his sleepy haze. 

“Oh. Sure, yeah,” Zayn says. “It’s a 4S, though. I’m behind the times.”

“Me too,” the guy says, and his eyes crinkle up as he smiles, slow and bright, in thanks. 

Zayn is not staring. He isn’t. 

“Lucky you,” he finally says, and unplugs his phone, fishing it out from where it’s uncomfortably hot against his thigh. 

“Harry,” the guy says, as Zayn offers him the cord, which is frayed and limp and probably an electrical hazard. 

“What?” says Zayn. 

“Me,” Harry says. “I’m Harry.”

“I’m Zayn,” says Zayn, and cringes inwardly. “Well, Harry, I think you ought to stay over here so I can make sure you don’t run off with my charger.”

Harry grins, and it’s a little blinding.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and stays right where he is. 

“Fuckin’ 20-minute wifi cutoff,” Zayn grumbles, thumbing at his phone. 

“Right? ‘S bullshit,” Harry says, texting frantically. “Glad you were over here, though. I lost my charger and I was about to give my mum a stroke. If I don’t text back within three and a half minutes, I’m dead to her.”

“I know how that goes,” Zayn says, stretching his arms out above his head. “You been here long?”

“Nah, just got here, actually,” says Harry, dropping his phone into the chest pocket of his jacket. “I was late for my flight, really late, but turns out it didn’t even matter. What about you?”

A vacuum starts up a couple gates down, but loud enough that Zayn has to lean in a little closer to answer Harry. 

“Been here since three this afternoon,” Zayn says, grimacing. “Bit of a worrywart. I mean, it’s fine. I didn’t have anywhere to stay after I checked out of my hotel room anyway.”

Harry picks a little at his fingernails, looking up over the folds of his scarf to Zayn. “Yeah? What brought you to New York?”

“Work,” Zayn says, pulling a hand through his limp hair. “I’m a gallery curator - I was overseeing a show here. Just ended last night.”

“Oh wait, that’s sick,” Harry said, looking more animated than Zayn’s seen him so far. “That comic show that was on this weekend? I kept trying to make it. Didn’t work out though.”

“Was pretty cool, yeah,” Zayn says, smirking wide at Harry. “And what’s your deal, that’s not a New York accent.”

“Visiting a mate,” Harry says. “He’s waffling between New York and London, trying to find a place to settle into. You know those rockstar types.”

“If you mean high-maintenance, then sure,” Zayn says, adjusting the sprawl of his legs to try and get comfortable. “My flatmate’s the worst primadonna you’ll ever meet.”

“Can’t be as bad as mine,” Harry says with a grin. “Anyway, have you seen any good places to grab some food? I’m starving.”

“It’s like one in the morning… nothing’s gonna be open,” Zayn says, then realizes he actually has no idea. “Oh - actually, there’s a vending machine over near the D gates.”

“Fantastic,” Harry says, and Zayn has no doubt he actually means it. Harry pulls a little yellow coin purse from his luggage and lopes off, turning at the end of the row of seats to throw a smile back to Zayn. 

“Coming?” 

Zayn groans longsufferingly but grins all the same, peels himself off the leather and attempts to stand as all the blood rushes back into his lower body. 

“So, Zayn,” Harry starts, pushing his shiny curls off his temples. “Besides curating galleries and crushing the rest of us looks-wise, what do you do?”

“Pff,” Zayn huffs, glancing over at Harry, who is chewing gum languidly and obnoxiously, jaw muscles clenching tight. “I, uh, comics, I draw, paint, sculpt a little. Art, I guess. Mostly. Also Mario Bros.”

Harry laughs. “Mario Bros? Bet I could kick your ass.”

“Well,” Zayn says, unexplainably pleased. “We’d have to see.”

“We will,” Harry says, and tugs at the ends of his scarf to line them up. Zayn is caught staring. Harry just grins, running the wet little tip of his pink tongue along his puffy lips slowly, drawing it out. 

Harry buys a little pack of pretzels, a sleeve of oreos, and two bags of Peachie-O’s from the vending machine. 

“So much processed sugar,” he whines, digging an arm into the machine to retrieve his snacks. “All my food was confiscated through security - what damage could I do with an overripe banana, really.”

Zayn does not have an answer for him, and instead watches sleepily as Harry’s tanned forearms flex while he opens his Peachie-O’s. 

“Whatever will we do in all this spare time,” Harry says, grinning catlike and slow, and it’s not really a question. 

Zayn’s suddenly four hundred percent more awake. 

Harry smirks languidly, stuffs his Peachie-O’s into his coat, and runs a wide palm over the small of Zayn’s back, guiding them down the hall. 

“Tell me if I read this wrong,” Harry says, his steps faltering almost unnoticeably. Zayn likes that. For all Harry’s posturing and slow smirking, he’s just as hopeless as Zayn is. 

“Nah,” says Zayn, and slips a hand farther down the slope of Harry’s back, resting in the dip above his ass. 

Harry smiles, and speeds them up. 

“Fuck,” Zayn says decisively as Harry leads him into the conference room that’s sandwiched between a vending machine and a deserted Starbucks. 

“Shhh,” Harry whispers into Zayn’s hair, sleep-drunk and giggling. 

Zayn's yanking on Harry's coat, fingers twisted deep in the fabric, and Harry seems equally as desperate to get it off. Harry yanks his arms out of the sleeves, a little clumsily, but pitches forward again to suck kisses into Zayn's bottom lip. 

Harry's jacket is thrown to the floor, followed by Zayn's, and Harry sucks on Zayn's tongue with an impressive fervor. Harry's winding his hips into Zayn's choppily, like he's not aware he's doing it, and Zayn just spreads his own legs open a little wider from where Harry's got him pinned to the wall. 

"Can I?" Harry asks, looking up at Zayn from under his lashes as he slowly sinks down on his knees. 

"You - you don't have to," Zayn says, finding it extremely hard to speak. 

Harry smirks. "I want to," he says, and shuts his eyes, rubbing the side of his cheek along the hard line of Zayn's dick. Harry tugs at the button of Zayn's jeans with his teeth, and Zayn almost comes right then and there. 

Harry pulls off, though, and pulls Zayn's cock out to press hot, wet kisses up the length of it. 

Harry's just - gorgeous. Hotter than any guy Zayn's ever seen, and definitely the hottest person that's ever been this close to Zayn's dick. Zayn is trying very hard not to look at Harry, because if he does, he'll come in about twenty seconds, but he also wants to burn this image into his brain. 

Harry tips his head back slightly, flutters his eyes closed, and spits on Zayn's dick with a certain amount of finesse. Zayn chokes on his own tongue. 

Finally, Harry flicks his tongue over Zayn’s cockhead, and it feels so good Zayn could cry. Harry runs the tip along his bottom lip, smearing Zayn’s precome obscenely along his mouth and dipping Zayn’s cock into the velvety-hot pull of his lips, before sucking just the head into his mouth and bobbing a little, swirling his tongue around flat, already made slick by his spit. 

“Fuck,” Zayn grits out, winding a hand into Harry’s soft curls and gently urging him down farther on his cock. 

Harry gets out one more breathy little moan before swallowing Zayn down, working past the part of his throat he has to consciously open to let Zayn’s cock in. His mouth is so, so hot and wet and he’s just letting Zayn’s cock slide in as far as Zayn can push it. 

Zayn’s breathless, both hands clutching Harry’s hair for dear life, and Harry reaches up to push on them, asking for more, and that’s - that should be illegal. Zayn’s gonna come in about three seconds. 

“Harry,” he says, voice wobbling and trailing off, and Harry just tips his head back, lets Zayn pull his cock out of his throat and tap it against his bottom lip, run it along the edges of his mouth, and shove it back in, fucking his mouth slow and deep. 

Zayn reflexively pulls on Harry’s hair when Harry swallows around him. He can feel Harry’s throat clenching tight, pulling at his cock, and Harry moans around him, and that’s it for Zayn - he fucks into Harry’s throat, snapping his hips once, twice, and holds Harry’s head down at the base of his cock as he comes hot down his throat, long and shaky. 

Zayn’s having a hard time holding himself up, his hands shaking where they’re still buried in Harry’s hair. He pulls Harry off his cock gently, tensing at the over-sensitive glide, but keeps his hands in Harry’s hair. 

“Get yourself out,” Zayn says, voice rough, and Harry shuts his eyes again, unzipping. There’s a few smears of come along the edges of his red, fucked-out mouth. 

Harry’s dick is thick and red, painfully hard, and Zayn winces in sympathy. The first touch of Harry’s hand to his dick has him twitching. 

“Lick your fingers,” Zayn says, watching him, tugging at his hair softly. 

Harry’s swaying on his knees, eyes still closed, licking at Zayn’s come on his lips, then his fingers. 

“Touch that pretty cock,” Zayn orders him, pulling him away by a handful of hair so he can see. 

Harry’s moving his hand furiously, the wet slap audible in the empty room. He’s shivering, arching up into Zayn’s hands in his hair. His movements get tighter, more jerky, and he’s moaning loud and unashamed, pressing his face into the crease of Zayn’s hip. 

“Yeah, fuck, come for me,” Zayn says, pressing Harry’s face into his groin, Harry’s mouth breathing hot over his softening cock. 

“Oh,” Harry groans, almost in surprise, turning his head so his open mouth is mashed into Zayn’s thigh. He shudders, struggling for a breath and moaning muffled into Zayn’s skin, coming thick and hot all over the floor with Zayn pulling hard at his hair. 

“Okay,” Zayn pants incredulously. “Damn.”

Harry just giggles, messy from the hot red flush of his neck up. He yanks up his jeans, tugging up Zayn’s after he clambers to his feet. 

“Let’s go back, then?” Harry asks, wiping at the back of his mouth. “‘M a little sleepy.”

“Yes,” says Zayn, thumbing at the corner of Harry’s mouth and planting a kiss there.

+++

Zayn is falling asleep on his feet. He used to think that he and his eyelids were once a team, working together for a common good, but they’re betraying him, falling shut every ten seconds and requiring inhumane amounts of energy to wrench back open. He honestly cannot keep this up for much longer. Those hard plastic airport seats have never sounded so good. 

“Harry, you’re gonna have to carry me back,” Zayn mumbles, drifting off to the right as they head back to their gate. He snaps awake, lurching over and almost crashing into Harry. Harry is somehow still completely functional, eyes bright and voice clear as he says - 

“Er, I’m really, really, sorry Zayn, but we’ve been going the wrong way… do you really need to be carried? I learned this cool move at base camp once - it’s supposed to be easier on your joints -”

Sure enough, above them looms a sign: Terminal D ahead.

 _Base camp?_ Zayn thinks.

Harry must feel the frustration and weariness pouring off Zayn in waves, because he scampers over to the luggage trolleys, whips one out, and zooms back over to Zayn, who’s teetering on his feet and feeling generally unwell. 

“Alright, get in,” Harry says with a grin, pointing at the small carpeted platform. 

“No - what?” Zayn says, because there is no way he’s going to fit in there. Harry climbs in, his limbs askew and flailing for a second until he situates himself, the cart rolling slowly toward the wall. 

“Sit like this,” he yells, inappropriately loud for the distance separating them. “Hold on the the sides! I’ll push you!”

Harry is something else, Zayn thinks, and gets into what will certainly be the cause of his untimely death. Harry’s beaming, and with a gentle shove that still sends Zayn’s head snapping back, they’re off. 

Harry wheels him through the walkways with all the speed of a newborn cheetah and the grace of a newborn deer, which is to say that Harry can go fast, but he is very bad at aiming trolleys. 

“INCOMING,” he bellows, pointing straight for a small lap-dog tethered to a woman, and Zayn leans to the right in hopes they can redirect in time - which they don’t, but fortunately the woman removes herself from the trajectory of their death trap. 

They have two similar encounters involving a vacuum cord and, a few seconds later, the janitor attached to said vacuum. With only slight trauma, they arrive once again at their gate where their luggage sits unharmed, and the desk attendant gives them a pungent stink-eye. 

“Well,” Harry says brightly, nudging the cart to the side inconspicuously after Zayn has clambered off. “Up for a round of Go Fish?”

Zayn is trying very hard not to vomit all over Harry’s shoes, which look expensive. 

“Sure,” he gets out, and pulls himself dramatically onto a chair near his suitcases. 

Zayn is horrifically bad at Go Fish, even if it is one of the easiest games in the world, as Harry so gently informs him. They give up halfway through the second round and start talking instead, Zayn telling Harry about the new apartment his roommate’s finding for them while he’s gone and Harry telling Zayn all sorts of horrible flat-share stories. 

“Flight 3879 to London will be departing at 5:25 AM,” the loudspeaker bleats, jolting Zayn’s eyes up from where he was blearily staring at Harry’s long, tan fingers picking along the rip in his jeans. “Boarding will begin at 5:00 AM. We apologize for any inconvenience. Thank you again for flying with us.”

“That’s in two hours,” Harry says, his voice cracked and thick with sleep. 

“Not worth getting a hotel room,” Zayn says, and he smiles crookedly.

Harry stretches his legs out in front of him, groaning as his knees straighten with a crackle. “Can’t lie down without one of these damn armrests stabbing you in the spleen,” he grumbles.

“Fuck this,” Zayn groans, near tears for whatever stupid reason. The sleep deprivation and overall frustration is getting to him. He’s never done well with shit like this. 

“Hey,” Harry says, as Zayn scrubs at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He wraps a warm hand around Zayn’s wrist, tugging him closer, and Zayn closes his eyes to hide their redness. 

“C’mere,” Harry says softly. Zayn can almost feel the warmth of Harry’s affection glowing beside him. “Come here,” Harry repeats, and nestles a shoulder lower, closer to Zayn’s. 

“Lean on me,” he says. “I’m a great pillow, I promise. Or your money back.”

Zayn snorts out a soggy laugh, close to tearing up again - honestly, fuck this day - 

but he snuggles into Harry, and all he can smell is cinnamon and amber and he desperately wants to stay awake so he can remember how warm Harry is against him, and the soft whuff of his breath, and the way he radiates safety. 

Zayn falls asleep within three minutes. Harry’s arm falls asleep almost immediately, but he doesn’t mind at all, and while Zayn is sleeping he sneakily programmes his number into Zayn’s phone. 

+++

“God, I’m so happy to see you, Ni,” Zayn says, launching himself at Niall after he drags himself down the gate in a haze of stale plane air and armpit sweat. Harry’d been several rows up in the plane - he’d wanted to say thank you, maybe get his number, but there were too many people. Honestly, Zayn doesn’t even remember getting on the plane in the first place, but Harry must have dragged his lifeless body to the right seat.

“You too,” Niall says, taken aback at Zayn’s forceful hug. “Tired? You look dead on your feet. Come on, let’s get you home. I took the liberty of setting up your bed in the new flat.”

Thank god. “I love you,” Zayn says fervently.

The new building’s pretty cute, actually. It doesn’t smell bad, and the people in the halls look relatively clean, so it’s an improvement from their last place. 

“5D, this is us,” Niall says, jimmying the key into the lock. The door to 5E is wide open, and Zayn catches a whiff of incense and the faint strains of Fleetwood Mac. 

“Stop creeping on the neighbors, you weirdo,” Niall says, still trying to unlock their door. 

“I’m not,” Zayn says loudly, straightening up from where he was, in fact, creeping. 

At that, 5E’s occupant saunters out - ratty baseball tee clinging to his broad shoulders, hair up in a bun, and the tiniest little yellow shorts Zayn’s ever seen. 

“Hi,” Harry says, leaning a shoulder against the wall across from Zayn. 

“Hi,” says Zayn, grinning deliriously. 

“How did I get so lucky,” Harry says softly. 

“Ew,” Niall says, confused. “I don’t even want to know.”


End file.
